


Colorful Language

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, canon? who she? i dont know her, pnws office tom-foolery and shenanigans, strand caring for alex's well-being, strand is not as emotionally constipated in this one, strand learns about millennial culture, tbtp holiday exchange 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: or: Four times Alex Reagan hears Dr. Richard Strand Swear
Relationships: Alex Reagan/Richard Strand
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Colorful Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tmileseason3fanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tmileseason3fanfic).



> Happy (belated) Holidays PNWS/TBTP fandom! And a very special holiday wishes to 'tmileseason3fanfic' for whom this fic is for~ I hope you enjoy it!

**I. Out of Anger**

Alex and Strand emerge from the café and into the blustery winds and rain, booking it for his car as fast as they can without spilling their purchases. Strand graciously volunteered his time to join her on the food run, if only to get away from the ever-inquisitive interns, he claimed during the ride over. (Based on that small smile he sports when he thinks he’s being particularly clever or slick, one would be forgiven to think he did it to spend more time with her.) With arms loaded with bags of bagels, donuts, and other pastries and trays full of drink orders for the staff and interns, they make quick work organizing and balancing the awkward pile on Alex’s lap. Thankfully, the normally prickling warmth on her thighs is very much a welcome respite from the Seattle fall.

Alex isn’t a car person, so the best words she can come up with to describe Strand’s car are as follows: ‘nice’ and ‘too rich for her blood’. The hairs on the back of her neck stick up as she notes the pile of coffee and pastries in her possession. If this were a comedy, and as Murphy’s law ‘if anything that can go wrong, it will’ states, all of this will come crashing down, spilling liquid and crumbs all over the fine interior of his car and all over her clothes. Maybe some burns as well, just to really hone in on the humiliation. 

“We could’ve used my car, Richard,” she says, her voice wavering, revealing her fear of the looming comedy of errors that is just begging to occur. Strand rolls his eyes, on any other man it might come off condescending, but from him, it’s empirical and comforting, if a little teasing as well. The car starts, quickly filling the space with heat, and he begins the delicate procedure of backing out of the cafe’s parking lot during its lunchtime rush. 

“No offense, Miss Reagan, but I feel like a sardine in a vice when in your car,” he says. His head is turned back, his hand rests behind the headrest of her seat, his cool eyes focused and hyper-aware even as he trades witty retorts. 

“Oh hush, Mr. Long-Legs,” she replies. “It’s not _that_ bad, Nic doesn’t complain and he’s as tall and gangly as you.” 

“Nicodemus is lying to you,” he replies. A beat later, a candy-red Volkswagen Bug passing by, he adds “And I’m not gangly,” with mock hurt and a fond smile. 

“Of course, of course,” she says with an equally warm grin, “But I’m still going to ask how’s the weather up there--”

Strand’s eyes go wide and he slams the brakes. Another car stops short with a screech, mere inches from Strand’s bumper. Out of pure instinct, she squeezes the pile of food and drink, and -- just as she feared -- loose lids pop open, dumping steaming hot coffee, tea, and hot cocoa down her front. 

“Watch where you’re going, you rich bastard!” the other driver shouts before speeding off, leaving the both of them shaking (though for very different reasons.)

“Speak for yourself, fucking asshole,” Strand spits, his eye alight with rare fury. 

All these months in his presence, Alex has never heard Strand curse, not even a low to mid-tier swear like ‘damn’, hearing something so scathing and raw out of him makes her burn up with second-hand embarrassment of witnessing something so shockingly vulgar. She’s no prude, of course, she can curse with the best of them. The act of swearing at misfortunes (as small as a jammed printer to large ones like an office wide power outage) is a time-honored tradition in PNWS that helps strengthen bonds and form friendships across all ages. But from someone so put together and refined as Dr. Richard Strand, Alex is taken aback. Not even hearing her parents swear is as earth-shaking compared to Strand.

Strand’s hand grip around the steering wheel. His jaw is clenched. His eyes meet hers. He is the portrait of a raw nerve prodded. it's only there for a few seconds, long enough to strike fear in her heart.

She braces for a tirade, a lecture, a verbal dressing down of the ages. She knows he’s capable of it when the mood strikes him, she’s seen it many times before -- both as witness and recipient. 

His expression melts rapidly when he sees her and the mess. 

“Are you okay, Alex?” he says, his voice a soft whisper. His hands envelope hers, he examines her drink stained hands for burns. They’re red, tender, and trembling, but otherwise fine. 

She doesn’t respond, still in shock from the near-miss and hearing Strand swear. His face is one of genuine worry, not of pity or rage. She could match his anger, she’d snarl at being pitied, but seeing him concerned for her well-being, the thought she might’ve disappointed him, that she’ll disappoint the interns and her employees waiting on them back in the office for their food, disappointed in herself for not properly handling the orders and wasting Strand’s time and money and and--

And cue the waterworks. 

Alex isn’t a stress crier by nature, but with all those thoughts falling down upon her so quickly, it would be a herculean task not to. 

Strand can charm and lecture with the best of them when he’s prepared. And though he is no mind-reader (though the interns swear up and down he can, as well as having eyes on the back of his head) he doesn’t need to be one to read the situation before him, nor have a convoluted contingency plan at the ready.

Without a word, he helps her out of the front seat, holds her steady so she doesn’t collapse. When they’re both certain her shaking legs won’t give, he slips off her rain-and-drink soaked jacket and scarf, folding them up and placing them in the backseat. He takes off and drapes his coat over her shoulders -- a heavy duty, navy blue wool affair that instantly chases off the cold. Once he’s satisfied, he gets to work. 

He tosses the emptied cups and ruined pastries into the trash bin. He wipes down the seat and dusts off the carpet. Any offer on her end to help, any apology she tries to say is cut short with a wave of his hand, as if stealing her ability to speak. So she stands by and watches him, curled up in his coat, trying to stay warm. 

When he’s done, he turns to her, not a hint of exhaustion or annoyance at their predicament. He breaks the silence.

“Do you have a change of clothes in the office?” he says.

She nods her head. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. He frowns.

“Though I don’t doubt your co-workers’ kindness, I’d rather not make you walk through the place and humiliate yourself in front of them.”

“They’ll get antsy,” she says.

“They can wait,” he replies and helps her back into the car. 

He’s quiet the entire drive back to her apartment, she offers for him to come up and wait with her, but he chooses to wait for her in the car, believing his presence would force her to rush.

“I want you to come out when you’re ready,” he says, cool yet caring at the same time. 

It takes her thirty minutes overall -- five to dump her ruined coat and scarf in the laundry basket; ten to strip, rinse, and towel off the sticky remains of all those sugary drinks, ten to rummage through her wardrobe and change into cool-weather appropriate office attire -- black jeans, a white blouse, a green wool sweater that’s two sizes too big, and her boots; and the final five to grab her bag, her back-up coat (a pea-coat she keeps saying she’ll donate but never does) and lock up her unit. 

For a moment coming out of the building, she’s afraid that Strand has abandoned her, but he hasn’t. He’s waiting in the car, the engine idling, reading something on his phone.

“Missed me?” she says, sliding into the front seat, not expecting an answer.

“I often do,” he replies. 

The implication lingers for the entire drive back to the office, leaving her at a loss for words and warily stealing glances when she thinks he isn’t looking. Not a word leaves his mouth, finally speaking when Nic ask them why they have returned late and empty-handed.

Alex is prepared to answer, but Strand cuts in smoothly and effortlessly. “We were about to cross the street when a driver ran the stop sign. I was able to pull her back, but in turn, I made her dump all the food and drinks on the ground and on herself.”

The staff and interns accept the story without question, applauding Strand’s quick action, cursing out the careless driver, fawning over her with platitudes and well-meaning inquiries of her well-being (“I’m fine,” she asserts, “But what I’d give to stab them.” which earns her plenty of laughter), and the interns promising to have the driver’s head on a platter. 

When they’re finally alone in her office, Alex gives him a scandalized look for the lie they just pulled off.

“What were you thinking?” she says.

“I came up with a story that would benefit you,” he says. 

“Do explain.”

“Certainly, I knew it would embarrass you if we told the truth, and I didn’t want to see you having to save face to your coworkers.”

Alex is about to argue further the benefits of honesty, but Strand rises to meet her, taking her shaking hands in his once again. 

“I hate seeing you apologize,” he whispers, “To your co-workers, to anyone really. You have this desperate look in your eyes when you try to placate people, and it infuriates me that you feel you have to go around and prostrate yourself to appease their fragile egos.” Guilt crosses his face. “Mine included,” he adds. 

“At least you admit it,” she says. “ _Sometimes_.”

Strand grimaces. “I think my reputation overall would be much better if I wasn’t so…”

Alex has a few choice words in mind, one in particular a quote from Dirk Abruzzi, but she decides to let Strand speak his mind, though more out of curiosity and a hope for more colorful language out of his mouth.

“Prickly,” he decides. 

“Well, whatever the case, they’ll be singing your praises and calling you a hero in the office for a while,” she says. “Manipulative bastard.”

“Oh come now,” he says, squeezing her hands, a gesture that allays any lingering doubts and fears of hers. “I’ve been called much worse. Be more creative next time, Miss Reagan.”

  
**II. Out of Awe**

Though the PNWS office is small, it’s position in the city means it’s close by and within reasonable walking distance to many locale from the practical and necessary -- office supply stores, cafes, delis, public transport -- to the eclectic and recreational -- dive bars, karaoke, clubs that need a password or the good word of an intern. This particular Friday afternoon, she, Strand, and a few employees and interns are taking the chance to stretch their legs and burn some pent-up energy at a nearby sports complex to take advantage of the building’s free one-hour court session. Well, more like the employees and interns having their fun, Alex and Strand watch on the sidelines in amusement as the honorable, rule-abiding game inevitably downslides into one of Calvinball. 

They’re having a riveting conversation on their favorite childhood activities -- double-dutch and tree-climbing for her, biking and hiking for him -- when the normal jovial sounds turn to squawks of horror and accusations of cheating.

One glance tells Alex all she needs to know: the ball has gotten stuck in-between the board and the hoop. She sighs.

“Alright, alright,” she says, rising to the occasion. “I’ll get it down in a minute. Keep your pants on…”

“I’m sure the owner has extras or a ladder,” Strand muses.

Alex makes a face. “Too much time. I can get it down just fine,” she replies.

Strand blinks. 

“Forgive me for having my doubts, Alex, but I don’t think you should do it,” he says, rational as always. 

“And why not?” she says.

He doesn’t respond, but his frustrated, concerned expression says it all. He’s always worried for her, even when he tries to pretend that he doesn’t care. She’s flattered that Dr. Richard Strand, a man feared, revered, and hated among paranormal researchers and potential fraudsters, is looking out for her, but right now, the itch to prove him wrong outweighs his desire for her well-being. 

“Argument noted. I’m still gonna to do it,” she replies.

“I just don't want you to get hurt, Alex,” he responds, his expression a font of panic. If this was a bet, it would be one he would begrudgingly take. He’ll win, but he won’t like the results. The images of her falling and breaking her ankle, her leg, an arm, a hand, or worse hitting her head on the wooden floor or twisting her neck all flash before his eyes. 

“Watch me,” she sings as she walks away from him and he is powerless to stop her. 

“Please prove me wrong,” he responds.

And she does, scooting up the pole in under thirty seconds and punching the ball back down, dropping to the floor with a flourish and a bow to the cheering interns and a much relieved Strand. 

“You were saying?” she says, returning to her seat beside him, smoothing her skirts and sitting in an exaggerated lady-like pose. 

“Well,” he says, color returning to his face, “Fuck me.”

“Buy me dinner first, then I might consider,” she says, sporting a smug grin that could give Strand a run for his money, and playfully smacking his chest.  
  


**III. Out of Competition**

It’s always going to be an interesting moment when she sees Dr. Strand with a gaggle of interns crowding around him, looking at him like he’s the second coming of Christ or a pack of hyenas about to strike. She never knows what exactly is going to happen, rarely is it ever beneficial, so she lingers by the doorway of the break-room, ready to extricate him with a clever lie. 

Today, however, it looks like she might have to bail the interns out of trouble. All of them are sweating bullets and Strand is looking like a million-dollar prize, self-satisfied and absolutely wicked. 

She has half a mind to ask what the hell they’re all doing, sitting around a table and exchanging money, but something about this scene suggests she isn’t meant to bear witness to it. If she intervenes, they’ll scatter to the winds and Strand will keep mum on the matter. So she waits and is promptly rewarded with an answer.

“Can you top that, doctor?”

“Of course, age over youth and all.”

“Less talking, more swearing.”

“This one I actually did say. It was during high school.”

“What did you say?” the intern seated at the table says, hanging on every word. 

“I said, and I quote, that I’d shove a mercury thermometer down their throat and fucking break it in them.”

The interns balk, Alex winces. The one sitting across from Strand remains steady. “The hell did they do to deserve that?”

“I was part of the photography club, the dumb-ass opened the door to the darkroom and ruined a whole set of photos we were going to sell for our fundraiser auction.”

The interns pause, turning and whispering to one another, nodding in acceptance or begrudging respect. More money is exchanged.

“Fair?”

“Yeah, that's fair.”

“Very fair.”

“Mood.”

“I would’ve just dunked their head in the chemical solution, to be honest.”

Strand laughs. Laughter, good natured fun and mischief in general looks good on him. Any worries and past sins seem to wash away. “Oh, trust me,” he says, “I was just about ready to. Took three other students to hold me back. Ah, I remember now, that fucker was Patrick Erickson. Resident creep and “birdwatcher”. Don’t think i would’ve gotten in trouble if I _had_ punched him.” 

Alex smiles, and deciding he doesn’t need any backup, she slips away and leaves the group to their game, pocketing the memory for a rainy day.   
  


**IV. Out of Curiosity**

It’s a quiet Saturday morning, and Dr. Strand and Alex Reagan wake up on the couch tangled up in each other, the sun coming through the curtains, and the tv still running one of the more long-winded black tapes in his collection. Strand’s glasses are askew on his face, Alex wipes the drool from the side of her mouth, both suffering a serious case of bed head, in one look they silently agree to stay in. 

It is fortunate that Strand makes a mean stack of pancakes when the mood strikes him, like right now, foggy with lack of sleep, it’s easy for Alex to coerce him into cooking for them. She’s at the sink, wiping off the flour and stray egg yolk from the counter with a washcloth while Strand tends to the batter at the stove, whisk in one hand, his phone with the “super secret, totally original, no Alex, I didn’t steal this from a celebrity chef” pancake recipe on it in the other.

“Hey, Alex,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” she replies. Having finished cleaning, she sets to work on making coffee, carefully measuring out the grinds-to-water ratio as best as her sleep-addled head can, eagerly looking forward to pancakes drowning in butter and syrup.

“What does WAP stand for?” he says. “I keep hearing the interns talk about it and--” 

It’s not often one chokes on air, but seeing the world is a touch strange at times (see for example, platypuses, anything from Australia, and creatures unseen in the darkest depths of the oceans), Alex Reagan finds herself doubling over, spilling coffee grounds on the counter she just cleaned, and coughing both out of shock and flooding dread for having to teach Strand about modern Millennial pop culture.

Strand, all the while, looks on unamused.

“As I was saying, I tried asking the interns what it meant, and none of them could reply given that they nearly laughed themselves to death. I figured you could give me a straight reply, but guessing by your response…”

Alex takes a deep, steadying breath, forcing herself to finish the coffee to buy for time, before turning to answer him. “It’s...it’s the title of a song, Richard.”

“Okay?” he says. “I take it’s an acronym?”

“Yes,” she says, praying to God to smite her before she finishes. Alas, God is not as quick as her mouth. “It stands for Wet Ass Pussy.”

“Wet ass pussy…?” he repeats slowly, though not out of her shock, more out of disbelief, making sure his hearing isn’t going like his eye-sight.

“Yes,” she says.

Strand’s face is neutral and he shrugs. Ever the portrait of civility. 

“Is it good?” he says.

“It’s fine, if you like rap. I find it catchy,” she says.

“Raunchy?”

“Very much so.” 

And what Strand does next damn near stops her heart. He takes out his wireless earbuds (headphones are too bulky and get in the way of his glasses, and wired earbuds seem snag on everything he passes by), puts them in, taps his screen, and continues on making them breakfast.

The sight is damn near surreal. The warm morning light coming in through the large bay windows, the coffee machine sputtering to life, the scent of pancakes and coffee lingering in the air, and all the while, the tell-tale, yet distant bass that emanates from Strand’s earbuds. His back is to her, all she has is her imagination on the face journey he is going through. 

When Strand returns, he’s carrying two plates with two fluffy pancakes for the both of them. His expression is neutral, if tired. 

“So…” she says, taking the plate offered to her, watching his every move. “What do you think?”

Strand shrugs. “Not bad. Quite enjoyable. I can see why it’s popular.”

With that ringing endorsement, she finally relaxes and begins eating. 

“Oh thank god, I thought it would offend your old-fashioned sensibilities or something.”

Strand gives her a pointed look, the edge of it softened by his lazy smile. 

“I might be _old_ , Alex, but I’m not _old-fashioned_ ,” he says. “Every generation thinks they invented sex…” he mutters, rolling his eyes in amusement. 

“I actually recognize the beat they sampled from,” he adds, after a moment of thought, taking a sip of coffee.

Alex eyebrows go up. “Oh really now?”

“Yes, can’t remember the artist for the life of me, but it’s damnably ear wormy, as your interns often say, but it’s from an old horror themed R&B song called ‘Ghosts’.”

Alex buries her face in her arms and groans.

“Of course,” she says. “Of course you would listen to songs about ghost hauntings. What’s next, you’re gonna tell me you have the Ghostbusters theme as your ringtone?”

“I know my brand,” he replies. She can't see it, but she can hear and feel the smile in that statement. Those who didn’t know Strand like she does, would call it ‘smug’ or ‘self-serving’, she knows it to be ‘mischievous’. Looking up confirms it, and heaven help her, with this angle and the natural light and his rumpled hair and clothes, he’s a handsome sight for her weary eyes. She licks her lips, and it not because of the syrup. 

“Fuck me,” she whispers reverently. 

“Later,” he replies, punctuated with a wink.

It’s a promise she knows he’ll keep. 


End file.
